A heavy black dog lies on my chest
It’s weight a horrifying comfort
With breath of rotting apples and decay

A hole I can hide in
A place I am safe
A reason to curl my legs into my chest

Scream into my thighs
Covered in bite marks
Healed and healing and raw

A warm slick bath of molasses
A dead sea of my own
A floating apple

His gapping mouth
Poised to take another bite
And another

And when I’ve run out of skin
My bones will crawl into the black dog

And become the sadness
And the smell of rotting apples and decay

Yellow gets warmer the longer you hold her in your mouth.
Eventually, she will slide silently down your throat and warm your belly.

Green makes the tiny hairs on your arm stand up and
will make you want to put on a sweater.

Black goes on and on.
No matter how far you go, you can’t outrun Black.

White wraps itself around you like an unwanted lover and will not let go.
She will squeeze behind your eyelids,
up your nose,
into your mouth and never leave. 
She will give you a headache and make you wish you could go back to sleep.

The next moon I watch slide behind the trees
Will be the moon that sees me shed
The burden of skin and bone

As night falls I grow restless
Like dogs that prowl deserted streets
In search of love or meat

Stirred by the memory of a pack
That never contained me
Or even the thought of me

Let the dogs have what’s left
They are hungry and it’s the least I can do;
Feed them on a moonless night

At first it was a bumblebee
A bright and curious and nimble thing
That buzzed about with not a thought
Of what it should or should not 

And once there was a kitten sent
Who, while we sat with friends,
Climbed up upon my lap
And purred into my ear,
A secret loud enough for everyone to hear

Then climbed back down, as kittens do,
And hid amongst the leather booths
A feline felon on the loose

One year it was a leaping frog
Something that could jump and almost fly
Inexhaustible, it was, and kind and spry

Holding tight, two larger hands
One firm and one unsure
This thing, for now, still small enough,
For lifting from the ground
And swinging in the air

And then a larger thing was sent
For one or two or even three

Augusts

A quiet, thoughtful thing
For that is how
That time is meant to be

Though, for then, this larger thing
Had pulled itself into itself
If one looked closely one could see
The frog, the kitten and the bumblebee

And then for years 
The things that August sent 
Were birds that took to flight on strong true wings
And soared to brave new heights
Though out of sight and far from home
We swelled with pride and filled with love

And now this August I think I see
What seems to be a maturing tree
With branches reaching near and far
And melodies whispered by its leaves

And I am, once again,
Grateful for the things
That August brings

I want to write a poem
A happy poem

But the sounds in my head
Bump into one another
And spill the cup of tea
On my desk 
That grew cold
When I went to the kitchen to get sugar
And saw a squirrel through the window
I need to water my flowers
The clothes on the line are dry
And need folding
There’s a hole in my shoe
And my socks are wet
I need to get dry ones
I’ll go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea
That I will bring to my desk

Because I want to write a poem
A happy poem

If I were my dog I would think of death
The same way I think of listening and following commands
That is to say, not at all

If I were my dog I would run and yip with joy while I slept
Unfettered by the weight of worries and fear

If I were my dog I would be just as excited for the next time
As I was for the first and the rest

If I were my dog I would stop to smell
Everything

If I were my dog I would love like it was the one thing I was created to do
Because it is

Prism comes before prison
On the page of the encyclopedia
That I picked up in the street while walking my dog
Whose feet grow dirty with soot 
As she tries to make sense of the new smell of her neighborhood

I gently turn the burned page, brittle and frail
Marveling at the resilience of this fragile survivor
Drifting all the way from Altadena, my dear neighbor

Who now shudders under the weight of the loss of what she held and what held her
Of what held the parents that held the children that held the pets that held the love
Of what held the memories that held the past that held the hope of the future
Of what held the books that held the pages that held the words prism and prison

It’s snowing in Pasadena
I’m not catching snowflakes on my tongue
I am weeping and shuddering under the weight of the loss of my dear neighbor

She is growing tired
But can see the finish line
And beyond it
Another starting line
And that is usually enough
To get her up in the mornings
And out of bed
She pretends well
Most of the time
And keeps getting
Better at pretending
Hopeful that someday
Everyone will believe
That she is real
And she will be able to rest

But for now
For today
She’ll get up
And do things
And eat and walk and talk and
Sometimes 
Even smile
And hopefully
No one will see 
That in the background
In the space just behind her eyes
She is counting
And humming
And not paying attention at all

Lips spill words that make sense
to no one
but you

Arms to the ground
calloused fingers dragged through
jungles touched by no one
but you

Stooped back grown strong
by carrying the load of loved ones
cared for by no one
but you

Breath from a chest
round as a barrel
tight as a bass drum
that no one beats on
but you

Barely a memory of how you came to me
So frail
A foundling finally found
Keeping you at a safe distance
A tiny dinosaur in my living room
Your wretchedness
An unexpected sledgehammer

I am a slave
Waiting for you to see me
I want to be seen

Suddenly feeling myself fall in love
I weep for the pain of the loss of you
That is to come

Its downy hair
will fall off

If it lives

but for now
it lies covered in soft fur

Snaked by tubes
that plug into
places
tubes were not meant to be

The ocean sways
gently inside
this tiny round creature

The tide moves,
almost imperceptibly,
changing the landscape of
lines and numbers and sounds
that are its North Star

Her face changes like the seasons
only faster
and with no hope of relief

Tricorn Black becomes
Stove Brown
and before long
the Artichoke Green
of days old blood
is replaced by a hazy
Chartreuse
And then,
once her canvas is blank

He begins to paint again

Cold water as I catch my breath,
lifeless for a split second too long,
before breaking back into the light

A sharp knife dropped,
the moment before it lands,
as I stand waiting,
barefoot

Pay attention
I hear a voice
Don’t drive so fast

The smell of melting metal,
a long forgotten kettle
that has stopped screaming

A breeze carries the curtain
across the floor
in a dance.
I’ve forgotten to lock the door

I’m tired of letting my hair grow
and pants that pinch my waist

I’m tired of shaving my legs
and plucking the hairs above my lip

I’m tired of sleeping in a bed
and wearing shoes outside the house

I’m tired of not running through the grass
for no other reason than I have the legs to do so

He shows up without invitation
and over or under shares
as he sees fit

I don’t complain,
happy for the company,
despite his mothball smell
and unkempt clothes

He sits silently, heavily, into my favorite chair
shedding dead skin
that will mingle with mine
and become the dust
in the air that I breath

Some days,
when I’ve not seen him for weeks,
he will arrive carrying a bowl filled with fruit
most of it rotten
but some of it not

and I greedily eat it all,
the putrid and the sweet
licking the filthy bowl
with my lizard tongue,
my eyes fixed on his,
my belly swollen yet still growling for more

Then he rises, silently scornful
I yell towards his impossibly stooped, retreating back
“I’m still hungry!”

He never turns, but I am certain that he hears me